Page 4 of Split

I stand there frozen for a moment, gawking after him.

Gowhere?

I turn to my father, the question on the tip of my tongue, but he just impatiently gestures for me to follow my new husband, mouthing the word ‘GO’.

So, I do. My movements are stiff as I follow the sound of Roman’s retreating footsteps out into the hall, trailing behind him through the house to the foyer, then outside to a black town car parked at the curb. A driver is there holding the door open for us, and Roman ducks in first, sliding all the way to the other side and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I take a deep breath as I slip onto the cold leather seat, casting a nervous glance Roman’s way. The windows of the town car are blacked out, the light of his phone screen illuminating his face in an eerie glow. The door closes behind me, and moments later, the driver takes his seat up front, rolling up the partition to conceal himself from sight.

I flinch when the vehicle lurches forward, glancing out the darkened window as we pull away from the circle drive. I don’t dare to speak. I just watch out the window, memorizing the route we take while I fantasize about escaping this mess I’ve found myself in.

Not that I’d have anywhere to run to.

I can’t return to my father’s house. I have no money, nothing of my own. I could try to contact Wesley, but even if he did want to escape with me, we’d be doomed to a life on the run, constantly looking over our shoulders.

The only thing left to do is accept my fate and hope that my eventual death will be a quick one.

My mind slips away to a dark place as we travel, full of macabre memories and horrific imaginings of what lies ahead. After what feels like forever, the car finally turns up a long driveway framed by tall trees on either side. I look ahead expectantly, but I don’t see a house– it’s just an endless driveway that seems to go on for miles until finally, I make out the silhouette of a large castle-like building emerging ahead. I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth, knee bouncing anxiously.

The driver pulls up in the shadow of the crumbling old mansion, shifting the car in park, getting out, and coming around to open the door. Only then does Roman look up from his phone, turning his attention to me for the first time since we left his father’s house.

“I’ll arrange to have your things delivered this afternoon,” he states.

I nod, shuffling out of the back seat and rising to stand outside the car. I pause when I realize Roman hasn’t made any move to follow, glancing back in at him.

“You’re not coming?” I ask warily.

He frowns, the muscle in his jaw feathering in irritation. “I have somewhere to be.”

Before I can ask another question, Roman nods to the driver, who closes the car door to seal him off from me.

Drawing a shuddering breath, I turn to stare up at the ghoulish stone façade of the mansion, a deep sense of foreboding settling over me.

The driver steps up beside me, tipping his head toward the oversized front door. “Welcome home.”

2

Ifeel like I’ve just been dropped into some sort of gothic horror movie. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours since my father informed me that he’d brokered an arranged marriage with the son of Magnus Volkov, a long-time business associate of his who I’d only met a few times in passing, and now I’m standing at the threshold of a creepy, haunted looking castle, staring into the face of yet another stranger.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Volkov,” the woman at the door greets, stepping aside to grant me entry. She’s middle-aged, dressed in a conservative black dress and matching tights, her dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun at the base of her neck and her eyes crinkling at the corners as she offers me a tight-lipped smile.

Shoring up my courage, I step inside, glancing around the expansive foyer.

I have to admit, the inside of the house is more clean and modern than I expected based on how the outside looks– though the dark, gothic vibe carries through. The black marble floors beneath my feet are perfectly polished, the black crystal chandelier dangling above my head sparkling. Portraits in thick antique frames adorn the walls, and the grand staircase beforeme is made up of the same marble as the floors, black spindles curving with the banister that leads up to the second floor.

“Feel free to have a look around,” the woman says as she swings the heavy wooden door closed behind me, clicking the lock firmly into place. “Mr. Volkov instructed me to let you have the run of the manor, so long as you stay out of the east wing upstairs. That’s his space and he values his privacy. The west wing is yours, and I can show you to your bedroom, if you’d like.”

I spin around to face her, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Thank you…” I trail off, hoping she’ll pick up on the questioning inflection in my tone and provide her name, but she doesn’t. She just stares back at me, blinking her dark, beady eyes. “What’s your name?” I finally ask after the awkward pause that ensues.

“Clara, ma’am.”

“Thanks, Clara. You can call me Eliza.”

“I… I’d rather not, ma’am,” she mumbles, her gaze fluttering downward. “Mr. Volkov wouldn’t like that.”

I smile, nudging her with an elbow. “Well,MisterVolkov doesn’t make all the rules anymore, does he?”

Her brown eyes dart up to meet mine again. “In this house he does,” she deadpans.

---